


Touchy-Feely

by milverton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3990388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milverton/pseuds/milverton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are meant to go undercover as a married couple by the end of the week. In preparation, Sherlock gets method.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touchy-Feely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fyliwion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyliwion/gifts).



> Written for Holmestice Summer '15. 
> 
> Dearest Fyliwion,
> 
> I know you’d have preferred a plotty/slow burn fic but I'd started writing a casefic and I really didn't like how it was turning out, so I scrapped it. Hope you enjoy this!

According to Sherlock, the case involves a gay-friendly adoption centre and a shady facilitator--allegedly, the facilitator has been extorting money from hopeful parents, milking them for all they have, making them pay for every little thing their prospective birthmothers require. Sherlock and the clients—who John hadn’t had the pleasure to meet, was out at dinner with Harry for the first time in years—have suspicions that their birthmother isn’t even _pregnant_. It’s terrible, of course. It’s horribly cruel. But John, who’s a horribly terrible person, thinks it sounds very promising.

Sherlock had the idea that they'd go undercover as a married couple interested in adopting, infiltrate the agency, and get answers. And, in order to craft a believable relationship, Sherlock had said, they needed to practice. John’s not entirely sure what the practice will entail, but he thinks, at the very least, it will be an interesting week.

\--

When John gets home from a particularly trying day at surgery, Sherlock’s typing away at his laptop, seemingly oblivious to John’s presence. John flops into his armchair, sinking into it, and sighs, feeling at peace. "God, I am _so_ knackered.”

“Would you care for a massage?” Sherlock asks suddenly.

John shakes his head, confounded. “Sorry, what?”

“I attended a couple’s intimacy class last evening, and they believe that massages help strengthen the bond between couples. Since we’re meant to convince an adoption agency of our loving relationship this Saturday, I think that’s just what we need.”

John blinks. “Back it up. You went to a couple’s intimacy class…by yourself?”

“Problem?”

“It’s just—don’t you need to, you know, _be a couple_ to go to a couple’s intimacy class?”

“I said I was desperate for guidance, that my partner would never deign to attend such a class with me.”

John huffs out a laugh. "Incredible."

“So?”

“So, what?”

“Let me give you a massage.”

“You really don’t need to. We’ll be fine.”

“We will _not_ be fine; you're a horrid actor."

“Oi!” John protests, offended. “Remember the Mime in the Mews case? Thought I, er, mimed quite nicely.”

“You made children cry.”

"Well. You can't please everyone."

Sherlock gives him a withering look. “This is for the sake of the case. Did you know that partners who exchange more non-sexual touches tend to have the most successful relationships?” Sherlock perches himself atop the sofa, opens his legs and gestures to empty space between them. “Go on, then.”

John sighs. “Sherlock...”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says sternly, glancing pointedly at the empty seat cushion.

“Fine,” John concedes, annoyed, as if Sherlock’s just asked him to do something less than favourable, like the laundry.

(If John doesn’t make it awkward, it won’t be awkward. It’s as simple as that).

Once John settles between Sherlock’s legs, Sherlock’s legs close, keeping him securely in place, and his hands start kneading John’s shoulder with expert finesse.

John finds himself becoming pliant as Sherlock works him, caring less and less about the fact that his (male) best friend is giving him a massage in the privacy of their flat in order to somehow improve their nonexistent romantically intimate relations and more about how _good_ it feels. He gradually becomes putty in Sherlock's hand. “Mm, that’s really nice,” John says, closing his eyes, the day’s built-up tension fizzling away. “Lovely. You're good at this."

“I know,” Sherlock says, low, the rumbling sound of his voice reverberating down to John’s toes. John lets out a shaky breath, and tries to ignore the interest stirring in his pants; it’s a  _massage_ , for god’s sake. It could be anyone administering it, and he’d get turned on. It’s a natural reaction. 

Sherlock’s dexterous hands soon creep away from his shoulders, slide down to his pecs languorously. John squirms a bit. "Relax," Sherlock croons. Hands travel back up to his shoulders, then slide up his neck and down, applying pressure, then up again, thumbs delicately brushing the hair at his nape, long fingers kneading his forehead, working their ways toward his temples and rubbing in small, circular motions.

Sherlock’s hands slide back down his neck, then down his arms, stopping at his biceps and giving them an experimental squeeze, remain there for more than a beat, then return to his shoulders and knead.

Alas, before John knows it, it’s over. John gets up, feeling boneless, cracks his neck from side to side, then turns around to find Sherlock staring at him expectantly. “That was fantastic. Thanks."

Sherlock nods, stands up, and smooths down his trousers. "How do you feel?" 

"I feel great."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Not what I meant, obviously. Do you feel as if our relationship has been 'supercharged'? Do you feel a deeper connection to me?"

"...That's not how it works, Sherlock." (Though, a particular part of his body had certainly found a deeper connection to Sherlock as a result of the massage. But that will forever remain unspoken, amen).

Sherlock tosses his head, unaffected. "Until tomorrow," he says cryptically, then glides out of the room.

\--

John thumps the back of his head against the wall behind him, and he casts his eyes to the ceiling, meditative.

“Lestrade is taking _years,_ " Sherlock grouses miserably _._ "I'll be dead before he returns."

They've been languishing in the waiting room of Scotland Yard for the past fifteen minutes; Greg had asked them to fill out some paperwork concerning a murder case Sherlock had solved last week. And in the past fifteen minutes all Sherlock had done was complain, so John tries to filter him out, maintain his zen-like state.

It doesn't last very long. His solitude is quickly disturbed as a heavy weight is added to his lap. He jerks, startled. “Jesus, what the—“ He sits up straight, one hand immediately sliding around a waist--Sherlock's--the other gravitating to a thigh--also Sherlock's. Unfathomably, Sherlock is sitting, sideways, on top of his lap, looking down at him curiously. They stare at each other for a few moments in silence, before John cries out, “What the _hell_ are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock says sharply, fluttering his hand to indicate the (very limited) space between them. “I’m sitting on your lap.”

“No shit!” John says, huffing out a disbelieving laugh, gawping up at Sherlock. Sherlock constantly surprises him, but this--this takes the cake. "But _why,_ for the love of god?"

Sherlock slides an arm around John’s neck, hanging on for dear life. "It seems that happy couples do this."

"Come again?"

"Sit on each others's laps. Young, happy couples do it in public all the time. I've made such observations. Since we’re meant to masquerade as a happy couple by the end of the week…”

John glances down at the exposed V of Sherlock’s shirt. It’s very close to his face, now, so he can’t not look. His eyes travel up Sherlock’s pale, graceful neck, which also happens to be in his direct line of vision. Sherlock readjusts himself slightly in John’s lap, rubbing against John's crotch and John’s cock seems to quite like it. Again--surely, it could be anyone rubbing up against him and he’d like it. Having a warm body pressed to him is...nice. (Pitiful. It's been awhile). 

Sherlock takes John’s hand off his lower thigh, and moves it higher up. "There. Perfect. This is precise pose I've so often observed." John stares at his hand, now just mere inches from Sherlock's groin. "You must know you are free to touch me wherever, whenever, John. It will only serve to bolster our performance this weekend if you acclimatize yourself to touching me intimately."

That’s definitely not something John hears every day. Dripping from Sherlock’s baritone, in particular, is a bit dizzying. “Right,” John says, unthinking. “No, wait, no! I’m not going to do that!”

Sherlock leans back slightly, narrows his eyes. “Why not?”

“Are you serious?" John says, wild-eyed. "It's a bit much, all of it, don't you think? Of course you don't. You can't just plop yourself onto my lap whenever you please!”

Of course, Greg chooses that moment to waltz in. "All right, I just need you lads to—oh, _hell-o_.”

"Boss, I forgot to give you--" Sally comes to a halt beside Greg, gaping at Sherlock and John.

John is beyond mortified. He takes his hands off Sherlock, holds them high in the air in faux-surrender. He can feel his cheeks flushing, and he resolutely does not look at Greg or Sally. 

“Lestrade. The papers,” Sherlock demands, as cool and collected as ever.

From the corner of his eye, John can see Greg and Sally exchange a look. Greg steps forward and silently proffers Sherlock a folder bursting with papers. No one says anything for a few moments. Greg's the one to break the silence. "So...is there something you two want to tell me?”

“No. Sherlock,” John warns. “Get off.”

“Make me.”

Sally snorts loudly. Sherlock throws a glare over his shoulder at her. "Problem?”

"Yeah. Can't you and your boyfriend be irritatingly lovey somewhere that I'm not?”

“I’m not his boyfriend! _”_ John protests immediately.

“ _You’re_ the one who walked in here, Sally,” Sherlock retorts.

Sally scoffs. “In case you forgot: _I work here_.”

Sherlock cocks his head mockingly. “You work in the waiting room of Scotland Yard? But I thought you were promoted recently?”

“Ha. Ha,” Sally says dryly. “I’ll talk to you later, boss. I'd rather my eyes no longer be assaulted by Holmes's and Watson's PDA."

As Sally head outs, John sputters after her, “We—I—Sherlock wanted to get some practice in for an undercover case. We need to pose as a married couple. Tell them, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shrugs one shoulder elegantly. “It’s true,” he says lazily.

Greg considers John for a moment, then smirks. “All right, mate.” 

“Come on, Greg—“

“It’s fine,” Greg says, waving John’s objection away. “I get it. You weren't ready."

"No, Greg, _really_ , it's not like that--"

"Just get the paperwork done, yeah?” As Greg strides out the door, he calls out over his shoulder, “I’m taking you two out for pints soon to celebrate!"

“Fuck’s sake,” John says with exasperation. “Sherlock, get off!” John practically pleads.

Sherlock fixates a challenging glare at John. “I said ‘ _make me_.’”

“You--all right,” John says, affecting calmness, fury rising. He hoists Sherlock up, bridal style, and Sherlock flails until John’s placed him down on the floor. Sherlock staggers a bit then rights himself, then looks at John with outright astonishment.

“You’re a tit,” John says, smoothing down his jeans. Sherlock merely stares at him, fascinated. "I mean, honestly." Sherlock keeps staring. "Stop that." 

Sherlock clears his throat, looks away, and pulls his coat closed. John sighs, sits back down, and slaps the folder of papers on his lap. "All right. Let's get this done, and fast."

\--

On Wednesday, John's lounging on the sofa, sipping at a beer, and watching crap telly--a much needed reprieve. Soon, he hear footsteps and the cushion dips beside him. He glances over to find Sherlock sitting ramrod straight, eyes ahead, fixated on the telly. John doesn't bother to ask. 

Sherlock glances at him, then slowly lowers himself down until his head's nestled in John's lap, then he curls his body into himself and closes his eyes. John stares, incredulous, at Sherlock's ear. John has an inkling this is to do with the case. It's the only explanation; it isn't exactly Sherlock's wont to have a cuddle on the sofa. 

 

Sherlock nuzzles deeper into John's lap, cheek brushing against John's thigh. John hasn't the strength to fight it. (Besides, it isn't really much of a bother).

Sherlock looks so innocent, and vulnerable--words of which he normally would never use to describe Sherlock Holmes. John wonders if Sherlock's ever had this in his life, had ever had someone to give him small comforts, had someone take care of him.

Before he can stop himself, he finds himself smiling sadly, fondly, down at Sherlock and reaching out to  gingerly run his hand over the hair above Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock's body twitches at the touch, goes stiff. John thinks he's done something wrong, but Sherlock quickly relaxes, pushing up into John's palm like a great cat, a plea for more contact. John strokes again, then again, mindlessly, and turns attention back to the telly.

They remain that way until the show's over, when Sherlock gets up wordlessly, disappearing down the hallway and into his bedroom. 

\--

The next day, John wonders if the impromptu sort-of cuddle on the sofa was a dream. Sherlock doesn't bring it up, so neither does John.

Around 7:00, John’s washing the dishes when he hears Sherlock stomping up the stairs. Minutes later, he hears Sherlock coming into the kitchen, then feels light pressure on his lower back. “I bought some wine,” Sherlock says. “But it appears you’ve already eaten dinner.”

John clears his throat. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean I can’t have some as a nightcap.”

Sherlock runs his hand up John’s back until it’s resting on his shoulder.

John freezes. “Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“What’re you doing?”

Sherlock sighs. “Practicing. Remember?” Sherlock snarls. “ _You_ haven’t been practicing.”

John shuts off the sink tap with more force than strictly necessary, and whips around toward Sherlock, fed up. “Tell me. What do you want me to do?”

“Place your hands on my waist.”

John reaches out and does just that. “Happy?”

Sherlock puts his arm around John’s neck, as if they’re about to dance, then stares him down. John quickly becomes uneasy under Sherlock's intense gaze.

“Studies have shown that people who are complete strangers are more apt to feeling more favourably toward the other person if they stare into each others’s eyes for four minutes. Since we are far from strangers, this’ll be even more beneficial for us.”

John snorts. “That's ridiculous." He continues to stare at Sherlock, despite himself. Sherlock's eyes are a kind of green—blue—no, verdigris. John’s never really looked at them for any lengthy amount of time, has never had the opportunity to determine what colour they really are. He still, generally, feels like an idiot standing in the middle of the kitchen, the two of them holding each other. Though, it’s a strangely secure kind of feeling, having Sherlock’s arms locked around his neck, and it’s also thrilling to have his gaze pinning him down, to have Sherlock Holmes’s invaluable attention, usually focussed on some abstruse puzzle, focussed wholly on him. It makes him feel giddy. He can't help it--he lets a giggle slip loose.

“What?” Sherlock asks, sounding a touch offended. They don’t break eye contact.

“I hope Mrs Hudson doesn’t walk in on us. She’ll get the wrong idea.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch. "Well, it’ll be validation for Saturday.”

“You’re really serious about getting this right, aren’t you?”

“We…owe it to our clients.”

“I admire that about you,” John says. Sherlock’s brows furrow in confusion. John clarifies, “You don’t do anything half-baked. You’re so passionate about what you do that you always put your heart and soul into it.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says quietly.

“You’re not as selfish as people think,” John continues, realising belatedly that’s not the most shining compliment. Though, Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. “You’re doing this for the clients. For free. I mean, you’re doing it, at least somewhat, technically, out of the goodness of your heart.”

“That’s hardly the reason,” Sherlock snaps. "You know that."

“Yeah, all right, you do it primarily for the thrill," John concedes. "You do it for the puzzle. You like to be clever. But there’s no harm in that. Especially the clever part. I mean, fucking hell. You should be able to brag about that. But, really. In the end, you’re helping people. Saving lives, giving people closure and justice. I just admire you for that.”

Sherlock blinks rapidly, then goes very still.

“All right?” John asks, concerned.

Sherlock drops his hands to his sides, takes a step back. “Four minutes have passed,” he intones, whips around and exits the room, leaving John alone, bereft, and confounded in the kitchen.

\--

Friday night, John steps out of the shower, dresses in his pyjamas: a thin, cottony grey shirt and white boxers. He brushes his teeth, towels his hair, hangs up the towel, and opens the door.

“Jesus!” he cries out at the sight of Sherlock, who is standing a bit too close for comfort. This is the first he's seen of Sherlock all day.

“I’ve been selfish,” Sherlock says, apropos of nothing.

John shakes his head, and huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, I know, but what does that have to do anything? When did you become so self-aware?”

“Yesterday,” Sherlock answers soberly, to John’s surprise. “When we were in the kitchen.”

“When, specifically? Got a time on that? 7:04 in the evening or—“

“I’ve one last exercise.”

“You’re making no sense whatsoever.”

“Kiss me,” Sherlock says, suddenly.

John opens his mouth, but no words come out.

"It’s the best way to prove—“

“I am _not_ kissing you, Sherlock,” John cuts in, flicking a look at Sherlock’s lips despite himself, heart thrumming. Has Sherlock lost his _mind_? He’s gone too far, this time.

“Please,” Sherlock begs. “I need to know what it feels like.”

“I really don’t think we’ll have to be kissing in front of anyone to prove ourselves tomorrow.” John backtracks and becomes awash with understanding. “Wait, have you never—“

“Once, when I was 18. But not with _you_ , obviously.” John runs his eyes over Sherlock’s face searchingly. Why is his heart beating so fast? “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“About?” John asks hesitantly. 

“There's no extortion case.” John stares at Sherlock, disbelieving. Sherlock grimaces guiltily. “I made it up. I’m  _selfish_. I wasn’t doing…” Sherlock motions vaguely at John. “All  _that_  for a client. It was for myself."

John tries to keep his anger at a low simmer. His voice is impressively calm as he says, "How--why would you lie about the case? God, you've made me look like an absolute numpty this week!"

Sherlock shoves his hands in his hair, pulls his curls in frustration, and growls, “I’ve never—you are--this is the first time I’ve ever genuinely wanted to—that I’ve ever had these _feelings!"_

And just like that, it clicks. “This week," John starts slowly, numb, trying to take it all in. "When you—“

“Correct.”

“You—the. Are you saying you wanted to?" John shakes his head. Surely he's got this all wrong.

Sherlock throws his hands in the air, defeated. "To touch you? Yes! Though, not to be crass, I'd have liked a bit more than touching. I thought, perhaps, I'd try it out and you'd find you enjoy physical intimacy with me, and then you'd proposition me and we'd continue on with a fully-fledged physical relationship. Sadly, you weren't very receptive. We must delete the week." Sherlock steps forward, eyes shining. "But, before we do, may I kiss you?" John's eyes lock onto Sherlock's lips again. Why isn't he saying no? “You needn’t reciprocate, just…” Sherlock gives him an appreciative, incendiary once-over. “Stand there.”

John looks at Sherlock, nonplussed. How could Sherlock have possibly thought that would work? Sherlock Holmes is quite possibly the least socially tactful and most barmy person John's _ever_ met.

And yet, the facts do nothing to discourage John from wanting to kiss him too. 

John licks his lips, and gives in. He moves forward, fast, leans up and kisses Sherlock, lips moving needily. Sherlock makes a desperate noise as John deepens their kiss, and he encloses Sherlock in his arms, moves his hands from Sherlock’s back to his arse to his forearms to his back, to his arse and remaining there.

He wants to touch all of Sherlock, all at once.

Eventually, they break apart for a breath of air, foreheads, pressed together, hot breath intermingling. Sherlock whispers a revelatory, reverent, " _Oh_."

"Oh my god," John breathes out, equally revelatory. "I'm an idiot."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees breathlessly, maneuvering and pushing John forward until his back hits a wall. Sherlock leans down and presses his lips against John's. John melts into it for a few seconds, but quickly realises himself and breaks their kiss. “You lied to me! You--"

“John,” Sherlock whinges. “Can’t you save your temper tantrum for another time? I want you to either a) kiss me again, b) touch me, or c) take me to bed.”

John’s anger dissipates immediately. “Yeah, all right. Another time. Don't think you're getting off--I mean, getting away with this, though." Sherlock looks the physical embodiment of impatience. "You conniving arsehole.” John grins manically. Clearly, he's as mad as Sherlock. "And I think I'll take all of the above."


End file.
